


Coming Home

by MoonWitch96



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst Thrown In For Flavor, But its not a priority, But not the bad guy, Drama, Dumbledore is Manipulative, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Fantasy, Friendship Power - Freeform, Harry Potter is Kidnapped, Harry is Godric, Hermione is Helga, Middle Age Historical Accuracy, Phillophical Leanings, Reincarnated Hogwarts Founders, Reincarnation, Remus Lupin is not much better, Ron is Salazar, Rowena is MIA, Sirius Black is a Little Shit, Slow Burn, The 90s, The Weasleys are love, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-09-27 20:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20414137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonWitch96/pseuds/MoonWitch96
Summary: It was all because Helga challenged Godric to a drinking contest. They all had decided that it was actually an interesting avenue of research. Being reincarnated was only a hypothetical- a theory that they deiced once the runes and spells were cast, that they would deal with in their next life. They honestly did not expect it to work.





	1. Prologue: It Is Our Choices, Harry, That Show Who We Truly Are, Far More Than Our Abilities

**Prologue:**

_ **It Is Our Choices, Harry, That Show What We Truly Are, Far More Than Our Abilities** _

They stared at the four identical vials on the freshly paved courtyard floor in front of them,_ hesitating_.

They looked innocent enough. They were ordinary crystal vials, small, delicate creatures of rough-hewn glass and a cork stopper. Only worth a mouthful. Precisely equal, measured perfectly for all of them. But they were softly glowing, with a silvery liquid that looked like memories, a glow that was neutral, but full of emotion in the same breath. They looked different in the rising dawn, glittering and tempting, quite unlike the clear liquid it had been just hours before they had started their incantations. The vials brimmed with such strong magic that it made all of their hair stand on end. Even after a year of brewing and calculations made to the absolute perfection, this joint effort between the founders of Hogwarts... They still couldn't bring themselves to drink them. It wasn't because they were scared, exactly. After all, this was just based on a theoretical concept. Fantastical possibilities that were only being put to the test.

But they were still unsure of_ where_ this would take them.

Their effort had been long and their parts equal: Helga Hufflepuff had drawn the runes, Rowena Ravenclaw had created the potion, Godric Gryffindor had done the Arithmetic calculations and Salazar Slytherin had created the charm they had just cast in their Circle. Together, they had poured magic and self, together, they had Danced in a Magic Circle of their own creation, and had attempted something impossible.

They were breathing heavy, sweat on their brows, their limbs trembling with the shock of the sheer amount of power that had passed through them.

The dance they had just performed had been complex and had started at Midnight, at the change of the hours, and had lasted until the very first rays of dawn had come over the horizon, the birth of a new day infused into each movement of their feet, of their hands. Everything that they were. Theoretically, at least.

It had taken a few months before they could cast without stumbling into each other- four was not traditionally well spaced out when it came to the casting of such powerful Ritual Magic. _Three, Five, Seven. _It was only in stumbling upon the traditional elements that were fading in popularity, had they found the right steps between them; _wind, water, fire, and earth_. In their Circle Dance, they had been ill-balanced. Untraditional and awkward. But try as they might, their calculations had the same result. Neither the peace of Three nor the evenness of Five, or the magical might of Seven would have worked. But in Four they had found something else, something profound. Something unusually balanced, peace, evenness, and might all together. It was a testament to their patience in making such a number work, or perhaps a testament to their friendship.

_It had been astonishingly **powerful**._

They were all on the floor, pushed back by sheer force of their combined magic. Sprawled in suspended astonishment, and frank exhaustion of what they had done.

"Bloody hell," muttered Salazar, pushing back his black hair with a ring-heavy hand.

Most of their community considered him to be of a sly cunning and to be a highly ambitious sort of man. He was a strategic genius when it came to achieving his goals. He, for the most part, had impeccable manners and tact, but his dearest friends knew the man to be a foul mouth and to have little insight into the emotions of others.

Godric, next to him, laughed, a slightly hysterical note to his throaty voice, "Now that had some bleedin' _kick_! "

As if to emphasize it, he flailed his great legs outward, sprawled straight on his back as he was. It was the effort akin to an infant; he could barely lift his legs off the ground. Godric was a boisterous man, with little censure and little patience for the nuances of social graces. He was a man of extreme moods, melancholy, and joy. The world knew him as the bravest of knights and knew little of the sadness innate in him.

Rowena opposite of him, snorted, carefully sitting up, pushing herself with her elbows. Even with disheveled and flyaway hair, she managed to look elegant. It was the proud tilt of her head, the assessing nature of her intelligent eyes. Few knew of her odd moods, nor the ridiculous nature of her ponderings.

"I believe we may have miscalculated the out-pour of magic," her voice had a whispy, misty quality to it.

Godric looked over, pursing his lips.

"There's nothing wrong with my calculations," he said defensively. Many knew of his chivalrous efforts, of his daring actions of a knight. Few knew the keen mind behind his brawn, or his hurt pride whenever someone belittled it.

Helga sighed, pushing herself into a sitting position before she fell back and gave up. Her blond curls bounce as she flopped backward with the grace of a wingless butterfly. She was known as a woman of patience and warmth. Few beyond her friends knew her temper to be beyond warmth, but hot and molten, or how swiftly her ire could lead to devastating consequences for whoever gained it.

"Then we were a bit overzealous in our invocating because I believe what you said was, 'It'll just be a_ little_ whack on the chest, Helgy', " she said, snappishly, her sarcasm cutting and quick.

Godric rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me if the casting magic to reincarnate ourselves required a lot more of us than what we expected. I did say that there was a possible pull effect from the spell!"

The four of them had stumbled upon this thought after having a rousing night of drinking, a celebration in the nearly finished Teacher's Lounge the summer past. It was a bit of a ridiculous area of research, they could admit. The idea of an ethereal essence in all of them,_ souls_, being able to be separated from their bodies. And the idea of using their Magic as a means to attach them once again to another body after their death, in order to be reborn again in this world... Of course, they were all well-read, had seen the merits of the theories of those Greek chaps, but it had only been an idle exercise that they toyed with. To be used to educate and further the inquiry of their world.

But the idea had festered and made them wonder, where would their souls, if they existed, go after they left this world?

Would they simply fall into a void of ether and would their hopes, dreams and memories simply crumble to dust as their bodies would, or would it just recycle again?

They had no idea and their research could only get them so far. It had been Godric's idea to push it from the theoretical to reality. It had been Salazar's tenacity that had kept them on course. It had been Rowena's curiosity that had driven them. And it had been Helga's steadiness to help them follow through. With the same joint effort to built their school of Magic, of Witchcraft and Wizardy stone by stone, they had set to make this magic into reality.

Salazar sighed and moved forward first, his long and pale hands snatching up the vial in a quick movement.

"We might as well," he sniffed with the air of wisdom as he lifted the vial to the light. He curled his fingers in his curly, black beard as was his wont. He truned to Godric, "It's not like it'll kill us. We already cast the spells. Where's your sense of adventure?"

Godric looked towards his best friend and raised a brow. He picked up a vial, lifting it to his tawny, brown eyes. It cast queer shadows across his broad face.

"Do you really think this will work?" he asked, amused at the prospect of what the spells and potion would do together. The spells had been a bombastic show of light and beauty, but they had created such spells as duds before.

Rowena sighed, crawling forward with the strength of a newborn lamb. She lifted the vial, smiling at her own work and shook her head, her dark brown hair moving with it in a silky wave.

"What? That our souls will not depart onto the next adventure and instead return to a living vessel upon our deaths?" she laughed, her voice a chime of bells, she smiled, large, dreamy gray eyes flashing, "We have no idea. But is that not the fun of it?"

Helga sighed, flipping herself off her back with a grunt, moving forward and lifting the vial to her own blue eyes. Salazar watched her out of the corner of his dark brown eyes, following her every movement. She frowned, biting her lower lip. She was the first one who dared to drink, tipping back in a quick movement. Salazar's eyes went wide at the sight of her glowing faintly gold. Then he followed suit, fumbling to drink his own vial, nearly dropping it in his haste. His own body was emerald green, for a few moments, before his pale skin dimmed. Rowena and Godric looked at each other before Godric gave a small careless shrug and then drank his vial in haste. He glowed red, bright and hot before his darkly tanned skin faded to normal. Rowena hesitated, waiting for a minute or two to see that the others had not dropped dead before she drank, glowing deep blue once she had finished her potion.

No one said nothing, trying to see if they felt any different or if they were all about to keel over and die. It wasn't after nearly the sun had crested over the ridge of the tower that they dared speak at all.

"How will we find each other?" muttered Helga, she turned to her dearest of friends. They who had decided to bring magical people together in times of burning and fright amongst their fellow men, "How will we even know of the others if it works? If we remember our lives now?"

They were all renowned across Europe despite their youth, despite the dismissals of many when they had announced their intentions to form a magical school for most of the Isles to unite. In that moment at Helga's poised question, they all suddenly felt their ages. Barely past their twentieth year and faced with their mortality.

"Hogwarts. We'll come back. Go to our personal corridor," mentioned Salazar, plainly, placing a comforting hand on Helga's shoulder. He was pointing out their private quarters, in the heart of the school, hard to access and easy to hide if they so wished it.

She stared at him, a small smile growing on her face before she boldly pushed his hand off. If her fingertips lingered upon his for a fraction of the second, neither mentioned it.

"What, shall we decided to seal it after our deaths?"

Rowena hummed.

"And what shall be the new password, upon the seal, 'Follow the Hog to the cliffs, by the water'?"

"I rather like the choice of 'This was a shite idea and a shot in the dark, but hey, souls exist'," jested Salazar, smirking.

"How about, 'A drinking contest with Godric leads to amazing discoveries' ?" teased Helga, winking at him.

Godric grinned, waggling his thick, vividly red eyebrows at her.

"If I recall, you challenged me."

"And outdrank you," she said sassily, tossing her honey-blonde curls, smiling at her dear friend.

The man laughed, deep and moving his massively muscled chest in sheer delight.

"Oh Helgy, I should've known that a woman of your beauty and power could handle me, sister of my hearts!"

She inclined her head in a grand gesture, a smirk on her face.

Rowena watched their easy friendship, in the soft, quiet way of her's. Large dreamy eyes intent on the people she had become friends with, whom she had striven to rise within troubled times against her people. She looked around in the courtyard they had just finished, looking at the walls they had all gathered painstakingly over the course of five years to construct a magical sanctuary for children to learn without fear of the _noose or the fire_. Of drownings and being hunted as animals.

She touched the stones of the courtyard, closing her eyes so she could feel the very magic they had instilled into them for the protection of the castle.

"'The Doors of Hogwarts shall always be open to welcome us home', " said Rowena, softly, opening her eyes and staring at them all. Her eyes were misty, wide and far away.

They smiled back and not even Salazar could make a smart comment on it, placing his empty vial back onto the floor. The rest did so as well. It was a moment before they could even speak. Then, Salazar smirked.

"Well, to life after death," he remarked, long arm flickering out, wand drawing up some wine, along with four goblets.

Godric snorted, snatching a glass from the air. He allowed Salazar to fill his goblet.

"This is what got us here in the first place."

Rowena smirked, gently guiding her own goblet into her hands.

"And how is that a bad thing?"

Helga laughed as she grabbed her goblet.

"My friends, may we meet again!" she said, lifting her glass.

The four Hogwarts Founders lifted their goblets, smiling and laughing at the prospect of another life with their friends, in a strong, echoing chorus;

"May we meet again!"


	2. To The Well-Organized Mind, Death Is But The Next Great Adventure

_ **To The Well-Organized Mind, Death Is But The Next Great Adventure** _

Rowena Ravenclaw died first.

At fifty-four-years-old, Rowena is frightfully young for a witch. Some would say at the height of power, just before aging tended to set in, and at a point were her magic is maturely developed, and yet to fade. But with a high fever, and being so _tired, _so emotionally wrought with the sudden illness that took the Castle... Even for its wisest member, it all became too much_. It was not the fever that was taking her,_ she thought,_ but perhaps her own pride_. Her own stubbornness and recklessness need to be in the thick of it. _Some would say I have taken too many ques from Godric._

She had been feeling ill for the last few months(_more tired than ill_) but dismissed it in favor of teaching her potion and charms classes. _Busy, Busy._ Focusing on the state of the school and the children. Even her husband had made a note of it, mentioning how pale she was...

_Ruaraidh new to the clan Ravenclaw -after twenty years he still felt new- is not as intelligent as his wife. He had long come to the conclusion that she was both more clever than him and beyond him. It is, however, what has brought him to love her in the first place, his fair witch from Glen. The intelligence of her mind, the curiosity that burned from her very soul. The fact that sometimes they could be in the same room and her mind would be racing and jumping to places where he could not follow. Marrying her only affirmed that his wife was the most intelligent woman to ever walk the earth._

_However, it also affirmed the fact that she was completely **mad**, often completely single-mindedly focused on a specific task to the point of neglect to any other thing trying to grab her attention. _ _As of late, she has looked beyond ragged- his fair witch's skin had turned sallow, her gait stiff and unpracticed. He had never seen her look like that save once._

_W_ _hen their daughter had run off. And even then, there had been a fragile strength to her, a stubbornness innate that could not be removed in grief. Now he felt that fading from his wife, and it alarmed him._

"_Dearest," he said, watching as she viciously attacked the students' essays, quill poised to wreck lackluster efforts… **Poor things**, "You don't look well."_

_His wife paused, lifting tired gray eyes to him. She blinked heavily at him before she laid her quill into her inkwell. She carefully pushed away her brown hair and Ruaraidh marveled at the fact that she had so many silver hairs. He knew he never made note of it until Helena had gone missing. He shook his head and came to stand by her. She leaned into his hip, sighing. He placed a hand at the nape of her neck, massaging the delicate skin there._

"_I know. I must finish theses essays and then I have to finish refining the curriculum concerning the Charm class- Oh, Salazar left such a m-"_

"_Mess. Yes… Isn't it time we find a replacement for him?"_

_It had been nearly a year, at this point, and Ruaraidh had become doubtful of his return come the changing of the leaves. _ _She stiffened, and he sighed._

"_Ruaraidh, of course not! If he would just see sense and come back-"_

"_He may not want that, Rowena… He and Godric got to the point of blows. I swear that Godric and Salazar would've have drawn blades if it hadn't been for Helga blasting the two apart."_

_Rowena made a noise at the back of her throat. It was something between a scoff and a noise of disgust._

"_They were both being ridiculous. Honestly, the pair of them are worse than our youngest** students**. If they could both come to be more reasonable over the whole non-magic born students instead of **screaming **at each other-"_

"_It's a sensitive topic for both. You know that."_

_She just sighed, rubbed at her eyes, emphasizing how deep the bags beneath them are. Ruaraidh felt his heart twinge._

"_Rowena, I beg you rest, please."_

_She smiled. It only just reached her usually expressive eyes. The lines that lined her mouth stretched her smile, made it look more exhausted._

"_Is that worry, my love?"_

_He hummed._

"_There is talk of illness near here, Rowena. Please do not overwork yourself and set yourself to attract it."_

_Rowena stiffened._

"_How near?"_

"_A couple leagues, no more than ten."_

_She narrowed her eyes, stood suddenly, legs wobbling slightly from being in that position for too long._

"_I must consult the school wards with Helga."_

"_That it is the very opposite of what I wish for you to do! Allow me to consult with them. Go. To bed."_

_Rowena only straightened, narrowed her large eyes and frowned at him._

"_The Wards are attended best to those who created them, __Ruaraidh.__ That was not you," she said simply before she gathered her outer robe and all but fled the room._

Rowena, laying in a starkly empty bed with no husband and no daughter at her side... Her breath is a loud rattle in her ears, her pale skin slicked with sweat as she wondered if she should have listened to her husband. But her mind is mostly set on the fact that she is not the only one stricken, that the Great Witch of Glen, of the Clan Ravenclaw, is one of many in the halls of Hogwarts that battles for life. She should have done more.

_I should have been able to suppress this. I should have been able to prevent this-_

Her mind, her greatest possession, faulters on that empty bed. It fails her in her last moments. It lingers on her latest failure, and spins and whirls like currents until it is solidly focused on her greatest failure of all.

"It's going to be alright," Helga's voice sounds queer, younger than it should, dips and twists until it isn't Helga at all to Rowena.

For Rowena is on her deathbed and her fevered mind called the one person she had failed the most.

"Helena," her voice is a whispered prayer, a desperate rattle of regret.

She is pleading for a daughter that would not come. Could _never_ come. _She doesn't care about the diadem. She just wanted her Helena by her side._

"Helena, my little bird, is that you?"

Tears mingle with sweat, desperation and confusion shifts to pure, unadulterated elation in Rowena, even as Helga above her is horror-stricken by the beatific look on her friend's face. Helena has been missing for years. Helga is nursing her as best she can, but even she knows that Rowena is dying. She can feel it in the fading weight in Rowena's grey eyes and her own eyes fill with tears at the state her friend is in. She cannot stop it.

"Come on, Row, dear," she begged, her softly, pressing a wet cloth against the sweating, swallow temple of her friend. She had tears in her eyes and could only just stop herself from shedding them, "You can't leave yet. Not me, here alone, please."

Helga has no idea what to do next. She was no great healer, had no great skill in potions or soothing charms for Rowena's comfort. Godric, the true Healer among them, had gone off galavanting as knights were prone to do. Salazar had fled just last spring and had yet to respond to any of her desperate letters. Ruaraidh was across the sea in the Continent gathering supplies for the illness that was threatening the frailer of the students and staff, and all Helga can hope is that he will receive the owl she had sent in time to return to his wife.

Rowena chuckled suddenly, a raspy sound that belayed her the state of her raw throat. Not the musical bells that had had first endeared Helga to her. Rowena reached over with a thin skeletal hand, pale, trembling and tugged at the curl of the woman she called sister. Only she reached not for her sister, but her daughter, for the one lost thing she would never find in this life again.

"I'm not leaving. Not without you, my Helena. Helena! Helena! Oh, forgive me."

Helga sighed, wiping at Rowena's brow again. She tried to ignore how her own fingertips trembled. She sang, softly, trying to ease her friend as she thrashed.

"Please, Row," she whispered, gripping her arm.

Gray eyes, vivid and hazy turned to Helga. Captured her in the sheer _wrongness _in those beloved eyes. For they had gone from the steel, Helga so knew well, to the wispy and mistiness of delusion. Of sickness and what she strongly suspected was Rowena's coming death.

"Oh, my little bird, have you come back?" she whispered, her thin, sickly hand coming to reach for her desperately.

Helga can not say a word as her friend continued to reach for someone that was gone. She only squeezed the frightfully thin hand back, heart in her throat.

"I knew the Baron would bring you back. Stupid odious man loves you know… Little bird, please, oh, your father will be so pleased..."

Rowena does not last the night.

**OOOOOOO**

Salazar Slytherin died second.

He dies at seventy-years-old. Neither young nor old for a wizard. Seven decades in his life have gone and he died for not his stubbornness, not his pride, but instead his for his ambitions. For his arrogance and possession of magic and his assuredness of being _powerful and mighty _because of his foray into the Dark Arts.

_My Colleagues,_

_I wish to inquire whether or not the school and the staff are well. It would do me well to know that the school is in running order and I hope that this is the case. I have written to be informed after the policies that which were put in place at my departure, and whether or not they have been done in the best interest of our proud community-_

"Bloody hell that makes me sound like a right idiot," muttered Salazar, before, not even caring for the expense, he seized his vellum and crumpled it into a tight little ball. He then tossed the ball with a slight growl over his shoulder.

Dozens of balls of parchment, only the finest, were all around him. Over the years, he had tried, again and again, to pen to his friends- _former friends,_ he has to remind himself. To apologize, to stand his ground- for _something_. _Anything. Any single word to return the dozens of dozens of letters sent to him without fail. _He is angry and tired, he had not wanted his friends to stand against him, but despite his stubborn pride he had wished that he had not argued with Godric in the first place. _But I am in the bloody, sarding right._ He knew he was right- non-magics, foul and cruel and worse, _ignorant,_ could not have their children going home with magic spells on their breath.

Children would, and were**_ burning _**by allowing their ilk into Hogwarts. And he had pledged himself to their cause to save children and his people alike against the ignorant filths that were jealous and monstrously cruel to their fellow men. Their spawn with magic-despite being _innocent and poor things_, could not be saved. They could not be allowed without the risk of the boys and girls who had sought to hone their birthrights. Who deserved a haven above those infantile and weak magic that came from those of none magical blood.

_Near twenty years have come and gone, and I still have not been able to convey the truth of the matter to them. I have not lifted my quill for any word to pass between us. Rowena is gone. And that is sorrow I will carry for not talking to them before, or after she passed. I was a fool and stubborn one at that._

Years had passed seemingly, with him in his study, every morning, quill poised over the parchment. With words and intent beneath his fingers. And every day it ended the same. It ended with Salazar leaving his study. Without a letter, without a word to respond to Helga, who had been the only one to continue to write to him, even when he had never sent word back. _Loyalty, affection, strong and true. I do not think I have ever deserved it from you, dear Helga._

His stomach felt all wrong. Turned and pinching sensation that made him shift about uncomfortably in his chair. He made a mental note to advise his cook to ease up on those blasted spices. He was seventy not some young brute with a stomach of iron. He sighed, breath huffing as he dipped his quill into his fine ink again.

"Husband," said a voice and he turns, to his wife, beautiful despite their time together stood, leaning against the doorway. She is dressed finely and expensively and he notes with a slight approval that she is wearing the colors of his House. Emerald green and sliver samite, draped across a full form that had only been enhanced by the children she had borne.

Salazar frowned, sighed and gestured for her to speak. She is holding up one of the many attempts of his letter, crumpled in her hand, frowning.

"Do you really think you can convince them of anything?" she asked, shaking her dark hair in a dismissive way. It had yet to gray, like his had, despite the fact that she was only ten years his junior. Sometimes he suspected magic had a hand but knew she was not so vain for such a thing.

_He had never liked dark hair. Always too similar to his. It is why Helga,_ he thrust the thought away.

"I can try, never mind that to you, wife," he said simply, feeling irritated. He violently thrust his quill into the ink well.

His wife narrowed her dark eyes, hands clasping tightly around the parchment.

"After all this time, do you believe they would be willing to accept even the owl from you?" she said softly, as she tossed the letter absently toward him.

Salazar flicked it away with a casual wave of his wand.

"Really Annabala? Throwing things like a common rabble? Most unbefitting," he said, tiredly, rubbing absently at his chest. It was a jest, a poor one, but it allowed for the briefest of smiles to cross both of their faces.

Then his wife sighed, a great big gust of air that was uncharacteristically rough of her.

"I really don't care, Salazar, if you wish to inquire for the past," she said as she drew herself up slightly, "But as your wife, I hope you will see fit to be logical. The strong-arm approach has never been your strength, husband."

Despite the prick of irritation at how true her words are, he finds himself softening. Affection is true between them, if chaste, and strongly hewn over the years. Annabala does indeed know him, for his regrets, for his faults and sharp tongue. She knew his dreams, his beliefs as well as any man or woman he had ever known. And there were moments when he felt his wife was the one person who knew him to the core, better than he knew himself. He smiled again, a rare expression that was mostly done in her presence.

"My dear, you-"

He paused, feeling the oddest tightness in his chest. He placed a hand on it again. He is blinking rapidly without the mean, measuring the strange twisting in his chest with some irritation. Annabala frowned, slightly, leaning forward with her dark eyes intent on his face.

"Salazar?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but gave a slight gasp as his heart constricts rapidly and most unnaturally. His breath, shortened as if his lungs had squeezed his heart into what seemed to be a stuttering mess. His stomach twisted. His hand gripped tightly into the silk of his robes, clawing at the material in an attempt to stop the strange palpitations of his heart.

"Salazar?" asked, Annabala, brow furrowing as she watched his strange expression.

"We need to_ fire _our bloody coo-" Salazar does not finish his sentence, a soft moan escaping him as he pitched forward into the pile of parchment in front of him.

Curiously, he can only see black spots, impairing his vision of his wife's fine silk robes.

"Husband?" said Annabala, sounding distant and almost concerned.

_I am well and truly in a bad way if she shows concern-_

"Wife?" he asks, shakily, panic and something else seizing him as his heartbeat so unnaturally. He reached for her, trying to blink the _bleedin' _spots away.

Salazar's mind is a blur, as his wife heaved him onto her shoulders, screaming at servants to help and then his world is even more compressed and so _painful._ Vaguely, as the world grows darker, all Salazar can hear is his wife sobbing, begging for someone, to please allow this. He does not understand and then there is a pressure, a touch to his brow, the softness of lips and he can vaguely smell her perfume, some expensive thing that he hated but how could he not get it for her because at least she liked it. Then, someone is gripping his hand, tight and true and he _knows _that hand. They are calloused and scarred and so ridiculously large that it warrants mention.

"Godr-" Salazar's can only wheeze helpless, high sounds, unable to form words.

"Old friend, you've come home," and Godric's voice washed over him, deep and true. Salazar tried to respond to say something, _anything_ but all he can do is wheeze and grip the hand in return.

"Oh Salazar, it's alright, we are here," it is Helga's voice and he can feel her hand on his opposite one.

His arms strain and he tried to speak. Nothing but garbled sounds escape his constricting throat. All he can do is squeeze the hands holding his weakly.

"Husband," whispered Annabala, near his ear, "Please, husband, do not strain yourself."

Salazar lived for a few more moments but with the certainty that he is _forgiven._

**OOOOOOO**

Godric Gryffindor died third.

True to his reputation, it is a bombastic quest of chivalry and gallantry that claimed his life. His hubris, is his age, ninety, which is not terribly old but still up there in age, even for a wizard, to be going about like a young squire instead of an aged knight. Past his prime, past the age to do foolish things

But it was a fine day, that of his death, and his legs are only slightly sore when he dismounted from his large horse. He stretched, cracking his very stiff back and absently pated for his sword. It rested comfortably on his back and his wand he finds is still in its holster. It is a habit that carried over from the days before he had found the right sticking charm for the scabbards of his weaponry. To constantly check for them, to feel for the reassuring weight of his blade or spear or lance on his back.

"_My dear Godric, where is your blade?"_

_Flushing, praying to the great Lord that Salazar's chest moving rapidly up and down in is some hysterical fit that would require medical attention, and **not** with suppressed laughter.** The great arse**, Godric fumbled to feel for his sword. Of course, the damn thing is not on his back. Rowena is pressing her lips together and Helga is just looking at him with a raised brow._

_Feeling his face burn, Godric raised his wand and mutters, _"_Accio, sword and scabbard," in a quiet voice and caught his blade, scabbard and all, by the hilt._

_Helga sighed._

"_Is your holster worn again?"_

"_I did tangle with a Griffin the other day, must've caught the damn thing when it grabbed me."_

_He twisted it and saw that it was once again worn, too thin to cast a simple repairing charm upon. He sighed._

"_Must you be so reckless, friend?" said Salazar, as he rolled his eyes._

_Godric pursed his lips._

"_It is not recklessness if it was in defense in of someone else, Sal. One of the students was almost mauled by the thing for antagonizing it."_

"_Do not call me Sal. I have a proper name and I endeavor you to use it Godric."_

"_Sal," said Helga with a slight smirk, "Do take care not to tease Godric too terribly."_

_Salazar flushed, darkly, his pale skin showing off the color well._

He sighed in relief at the fact that his sword is in place. He then froze as he spotted a figure, running for him, waving their arms rapidly in the air. Curious, and slightly alarmed he lifted his large sword, easily with just one arm, in his other, he let lose his wand, letting his sleeve cover it. He remounted his horse, easily maneuvering his reins into his teeth and urged it on towards the person. He is both alarmed and startled to see that it is a young woman, covered in burns and looking frightened beyond belief.

"Fair lady," he inquired, quickly, looking at her fine dress and jeweled necklace, "Whatever is the matter?"

"Dragon, Sirrah!" she cried helplessly, wincing at the burns, eyes wild as she tugged helplessly at his protective mail, "Please, sir knight, aid us!"

Godric nodded gripped the reins in his hand again.

"Take shelter, head for the cliffs by the great lake it is only a league or so, go," he told her sternly, gesturing behind him, urgently, before he took off at a gallop.

Part of him pondered the fact that he is ninety and off to slay a dragon. _But, well, it is my duty or my failure to protect those who need me. _Most of Godric is alarmed that one is so_ close_ to the school. Droves of frightened non-magical people are screaming and heading for him as he galloped in the direction of the nearest non-magical village. He screamed and instructed every one of them to head for the castle. It is only a few minutes before he spotted the great beast.

It is a sleek, large thing with rough, dark scales, ridges along its serpentine body and a spiked tail. What alarmed him the most is its great violet eyes, violently vivid and hissing as it spewed forth flame and rumbling roars that vibrate in his chest.

It is in a village, a nonmagical, the closest to the school. It is also in ruins, huts, and hatched torn apart by the roaring dragon. With vague alarm, he realized that it is preparing to _**nest**_, gathering materials and with a touch of disgust, bodies of livestock to feed as it prepared for its hatchlings. Godric's mind is spinning as he caught sight of a poor man that had been crushed by the great beast's claws, most likely unintentionally.

_Hatchlings dragons are ravenous and will ruin the school in a matter of weeks._

"_Expecto Patronum_," he chanted softly, a cold sweat starting at his brow and back, "Helga, dragon, beyond the lake, three leagues or so, be quick for the love of the Lord."

His Patronus, large, looming and glowing, of course, attracted the attention of the dragon.

"Oh, _Sard_."

His Patronus is gone quickly with a flail of its many limbs. And all Godric can do is dismount, heart pounding as his horse flees for its life. Sword in one hand, wand in another, Godric muttered a quick prayer and lets out a large war cry that has served him well as he rushed the beast. He is casting spell after spell around it, changing the consistency of the ground to that of water, sinking the poor, crazed beast as it flailed and threw a plume of flames in his direction.

Godric is swift but old and his lunge to the side is not quick enough. His left leg is caught in the very edge of the violent flames. His clothing is charmed, of course, against such an attack, his sturdy boots, but even Rowena's old work can only do so much. He hissed at the ache returned to stand stubbornly on his feet. He has suffered worse, has battled his way through broken bones and with his limbs nearly hacked off.

_A little dragon will **not** best him._

"You are not my first dragon!" he screamed, guttural and deep from his chest. He is lifting his great, glittering sword at it, making quick, precious strikes at its body. _N__ever aim for the rear end or the front end of a dragon, always armed with something no matter the species._

He made the ground solidified under the dragon, which unfortunately it chose that moment to beat its great wings. Its panic, its fury a screech of protest.

Godric is thrown back tumbling like a rag doll, screaming and cursing as he slammed his sword into the ground for purchase. He is scrambling for purchase as the wings blow air and threaten to send him ass over kettle. _I would never live that down. _Quickly, he sends pieces of the village huts transfiguring iron and heavy weighted barrels atop the wings in hope of stopping it. It only partially succeeds and Godric rushes against both the wind and flames. He is wielding his blade and wand in unison as he yells at the poor nesting thing in fury and defiance.

"YOU WILL **NOT **ENDANGER MY STUDENTS!"

He ran, leaping over flames and teeth to bring down his silver goblin sword on its neck. He nearly wrenched his shoulder out of his socket as he is hacking and screaming to high heaven. Blood, hot and dark, spewed like a fountain across his face. It is in his rush and slight carelessness that he does not take into account of the great beast's tail.

Which in its final moments, whipped forward to catch him on his back. Godric loosed the grip on his sword, hand coming up curiously to notice that there _is a spike through his chest_ falling forward slack as he began to cough up blood.

Godric lived long enough to wield his wand, finishing the job of taking the beast's head.

**OOOOOOO**

Helga Hufflepuff died last.

She is the oldest, nearly a hundred and twenty when she passed.

And she is sighing with the melancholy of all of her years, as she walked forward to her rooms. It had been a long day of delegating the running of the castle. She is Headmistress as she had been since they had officially opened the school, so long ago. She is not quite tired, it was more or less an average day at the castle, but she cannot help but feel the ache in her limbs, the slight hunch to her back. She had spent much of the day bent over a desk in an empty classroom, as she had never quite liked the grandiose room that Rowena and Godric had insisted for the Headmaster's room, scribbling away expenses and approving lesson plans left and right, or disapproving them.

She felt cold, quite normal as it was winter and the grounds were covered in snow and is gathering her thick outer robes close to her, even as she cast her next warming charm. Faintly, she missed the warm robes Rowena had made for her in her first unforgiving winter so high north- her homeland was cold as most of the Isle's were, but there was something of the high north that always chilled her straight to her bones. She had outgrown Rowena's hand stitched robes at sixty years old, her already full body rounding off even further the older she became. And she felt the cold keenly, as her current seamstress did not have the same talent as her late friend.

She tried not to think, as she passed three empty sets of rooms in the personal corridor of the Founders of Hogwarts. That she was the last to sleep in this corridor of the four who had set the stones and wards across the school grounds. Sometimes it startled her to think that Godric had died twenty-nine years passed- or even Salazar some forty-nine and Rowena sixty-five.

For it made her old heart ache keenly.

"My dear woman, you are always terribly late to come to bed," came a voice, as she tiptoed into her rooms.

Helga nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Helga, dear, you are just so late."

She smiled, sheepish, straightening up primly, and spoke with a sweetness, "My Auln, must you scare your dearest wife, to death?"

He laughed. In nearly eighty years of marriage, he had yet to lose the deepness of his voice. It made her shiver when she had first heard it, and rarely did it not have an effect on her. Now, his laugh bloomed in her chest, settled deeply in her ribs as warmth and familiar love affected her. His dear face had not been able to claim the same as his voice- for it was weathered and as lined as her own. Though he claimed constantly that her face had never changed, _the flatter._ He was dressed for bed, even had that silly and horrible cap she had knitted for him over sixty years ago. When she had yet to get the hang of it. Knitting, or looming for that matter, had been Rowena's art, not her's. But with practice, she had improved. But then again he always wore her creations, no matter how dreadful.

"If I must, and only if she keeps me waiting half the night."

She hummed, shedding her outer robe and dress over her head, tossing it in the vague direction of her changing screen. She shuffled forward in her thick winter shift, glad for the fact that a fire was roaring in her fireplace.

"Oh Auln, you know you do not have to wait for me," she said, softly, climbing into bed with some effort, wand flickering absently to let out the candles he had let burn.

"I will always wait, love."

She hummed, resting her head as she buried herself deep into their bed furs and sheets.

"You're like ice," he grumbled, but his arms came around her without much complaint otherwise.

She laughed.

"Then such a good thing you are so warm, my love."

He curled around her, still tall if not as broad as he had been, once, and she curled back into him, taking in how warm he was. He hummed deeply in his chest, a welcome habit she had picked up herself some ten years into their marriage.

"Alaw wishes to visit, come the Winter Solstice," he said, yawning.

"And what, our own wayward daughter needs a personal invitation to come? Nearly all of us already live in the castle who else will she spend it with?" she said back, yawning tiredly, eyes heavy.

"You cannot fault her being the only one to leave the nest, Helga."

Helga snorted.

"I have not faulted her for over sixty years. She wished to stand apart from my legacy. I have made peace with it."

"Indeed."

"Doubt in your voice, Alun? How vexing."

He laughed, deep and as rich as it had been when she first heard it.

"Someone has to be against you, love. If not your husband, who would be brave enough?"

She laughed, yawning.

"Have I exhausted you?"

"Not in fifty years, Alun."

He laughed again, tightening his still strong arms around her. He pressed a tender kiss on her brow.

"Cold, Helga, how utterly cold you are, allow me to continue to warm you."

"Why thank you Alun, good night."

She laughed again herself, interrupted by another yawn. He hummed, hummed and hummed, soothing her already heavy eyes to close. She hummed back, weakly, her voice never as strong or as sweet as her husband's. But he did always enjoy it.

Helga slept, content and warm, for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I do not own Harry Potter nor its characters. All of its rights belong to its amazing author, it's publishing, and broadcasting companies.
> 
> This is me, making misshapen sand castles in its sandbox.
> 
> Edit: 6 March 2020
> 
> HOLY RESEARCH BATMAN!
> 
> Okay. I meant to knock out this chapter much sooner, but the more I wrote, the more I had to backtrack for historical accuracy. I won't claim that it's perfect, considering I'm using modern English versus, well, Latin and mixture of Galetic, Welsh, etc, that is due for the time period that these people lived... Well. Here we go. This, more or less, as far as I could gather is roughly in the high middle ages, which is the late 10th century to early eleventh century, which is what Harry Potter wiki, lexicon and Pottermore more or less say that the Founders were born and lived in. I love history, and I pride myself to be somewhat of an amateur historian, but the high medieval period is one I haven't really focused on, simply because I usually focus on the art side of history.
> 
> Any corrections, with proof, would welcome, as the amount of research I've done is some what extensive and I would hate to be wrong about something.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Dark Magic: From what I can see, the darkest magic always, always has a price. Murder is a fracture of your soul, and a Horcrux is an extension/ritual involving it. I am confident in my assumption that other dark magic has its price, which is why we have Salazar dying via his experiments into dark magic. NO, before anyone asks, he did not make a Horcrux(The first to do so successfully was Harpo the Foul who is before Salazar's time, but I personally do not see it in Salazar's interest plus it would undermine the spell/ritual the founders performed to reincarnate). So Salazar dies of a heart attack because of his experiments! And before anyone starts to go on about how not all dark magic is evil, I want to reiterate the fact that in the Harry Potter Universe, magic is kinda black and white. You can make an argument for how magic is just magic and it's all about intent, yadda, but from what we get in the text? Black magic and White Magic are exclusive and have their claim and effects on its caster.
> 
> Swords:
> 
> Traditional swords of the period are rather titchy. Like, at most thirty or so inches (80 or so centimeters for all the non-Americans). Relatively small in comparison to late-period swords, which can extend more or less forty to seventy inches. So, yeah. I did some research(keyword there) and found that a sword at the time that is perfect is lo and behold, a Knightly sword(double-edged, straight sword, think of it as a precursor to the broadsword or the basket-hilted sword, which came into fashion about the 1500s). Made it a little bit of the bigger side to make up for Godric, who I always imagined as being relatively huge for the period. I peg his sword at about five feet or so, or about a meter and third in length.
> 
> Religion:
> 
> Godric is from an area of the British Isles from West Country in England, that was fairly religious. In fact, you can't find most places in the period that aren't religious. It was the high middle ages- it tends to be very religious. I debated this heavily with my sister(a Harry Potter fan with the knowledge that I miss and she's my sounding board and semi-editor) with research and in book text to get this right- and this seg-wayed very heavily into a conversation of the blood purity of the founders and how that reflects into their religious affinities. According to the three sites mentioned in 1*, all the founders are either half-bloods or purebloods- we didn't exactly follow that. Respectively, Helga is pureblood, Godric muggle-born, Rowena half-blood, and Salazar is a pureblood. Helga is a druid in accordance of Scots usually being that even if according to history they disappeared in the first and second century in Wales, Godric is from a landed family in difficult times of invasion and wars that decided to hone his gift for the sake of the family(they hired a wizard to teach him), Rowena is from Glen(Scotland) which was currently getting their kingdom settled and infusing religion right around the time she would have grown up and Salazar- is... Salazar is from Fen(Eastern England) which was religious but he's a pureblood yo.
> 
> Words:
> 
> So fuck is a relatively modern word that made its appearance around the 1500s. Sard, on the other hand, was the middle age equivalent of it.
> 
> I hope you liked the chapter! Please feel free to review, comment and ask questions!
> 
> ~Happy Reading,
> 
> Moon Witch '96


	3. Where Do Vanished Objects Go? Into Non-being, Which Is To Say, Everything

_ **Where Do Vanished Objects Go? Into Non-being, Which Is To Say, Everything** _

She remembered in a blinding flash of white light.

With a blast that sent her small body flying and slammed her against the far wall. Her neck snapped back, her back arched, and a startled wheeze escaped her lips as shadows danced across her eyes. She reached blindly for a phantom hand of her friend, of her near-sister or her little bird, mind bringing them both to her. She ends up clutching at empty air, thin fingertips groping blindly through stone dust and thick aftermath of strong magic. She screamed for her daughter to be with her with motionless lips, with no air in her lungs. She begged for Helena to forgive her for not keeping her safe and for not understanding the strain she had placed on her. Her only child. Her little bird... She begged Helga to help her, to hold her hand, and to take care of the students. She screamed mentally at both of them, her sweet child and her dearest friend, as their faces swim in her eyes.

And everything is throbbing in blinding agony, memories of a lifetime trying to make sense in the mind of a five-year-old.

She sees her own face, much too young, sweet and young. Different than before, blonde and doe-eyed. She sees her first face, aged, darker hair, keen eyes narrowed, chin harder. Her old name sings, _Rowena of the Clan Ravenclaw, Fair Witch of Glen, Wit Beyond Measure is A Man's Greatest treasure._

And it is too much.

It was like a whirlwind or a tornado that touched her mind, brushing away everything built-in those five years with the strength of a hurricane. A maelstrom of sweeping winds that leaves her silent and shaking in the wake of the force.

She groaned her voice a gurgle of misery and wordless pain. She can barely analyze, barely comprehend what is happening to her. It felt like hours, but perhaps only a few minutes pass until she can see past the vision of black spots. She slumped further against the wall, falling to her side, hair across her face. Still, flat grey eyes look at her from across the room.

She knew death when she sees it, and in her agony and with the wind of fifty-four years of her first life in her mind, she still has enough of those delicate five-years of her present life to realize what she has just lost.

She reached for the love that was taken from her in a careless slip of a hand. A sob coming through her throat is gone unheard, her ears blown in the sheer force of the previous explosion.

Her hand, so incredibly small -_wrong to the stronger memories- _is pale and covered in soot.

And it is an echo of what it once was. Pale, youthful skin had once been swallow skin drawn taut over a skeletal hand of someone who had lost weight in too short a time. Her family's signet ring glinting in the light as she reached for someone who was not there is not present. Instead, a wring of twisted and wreathed grass is its place, a promise of friendship instead of a sign of Duty and Loyalty. Fevered apparitions of love gone projected against a loved one that had flat eyes and neck at an odd angle, across the room for her, out of her weak reach.

"No… No," her voice is weak, high and devastated.

And she can do nothing. For the moment it took to see Death, she lost herself to a whirlwind of memories.

When a warm, hesitant hand touched her head, she can barely register it. Hardly felt it as they bring her tiny body close, a wordless sob escaping their lips as they clutched her to them.

"No, no, please Merlin _no._"

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

_1983_

Ron Weasley remembered when he is three-years-old.

And it's because at five-years-old, Fred and George want the teddy he has in his arms. They want it because it used to theirs(along with its twin, which had been easy enough to take from little Ginny) but their mum had told them that Ronnie needed it more. They do not like this, and they definitely do not like that their baby brother is looking so smug about it. Especially because he had just broken Fred's toy broomstick just a few seconds before. And Fred is mad because that was his teddy and the broomstick had been his only birthday present.

Ron is holding his teddy, gnawing absently at the ear, comforting because it smelled like his mummy, and it's rather warm. He is half asleep, when it changes, comforting plush arms beginning to wiggle, and new ones sprouting. The thick, coarse and tuffs of spiky hairs dig into his skin and he screams bloody murder. In a burst of accidental magic, the largely fought over teddy, now a crawling spider is sent to the wall with a large _SPLAT_.

But Ron hardly hears it, for his memories come to him like crashing wave against soft sand, or the movement of flood gates being crashed open by a tsunami.

A whirlpool that swirls around his three-year-old brain sweeping away what little memories he has made in an agonized current of water that has him gasping. He fell back and began to spasm. Fred and George start to cry in fear, holding onto each other with disbelief as they watch both the ooze of what was left of the spider fade into pieces of stuffing and matted, abused fur and their baby brother. Baby Ronnie is a horrible sight, his back arched and curled unnaturally, a gurgled scream in his throat.

Fred and George cannot even speak, wordlessly sobbing as they watch their brother.

Molly Weasley is in the kitchen when this happens, but within her eyesight is a wedding gift from Arthur- the family clock(a gesture of assurance and comfort at the start of the War). It is more of a nervous habit than anything when her eyes go to the clock, and she gives a startled intake of breath half between a cry and a denial, as Ron's hand goes to _'Mortal Peril'_. She still had the reflexes of her time in the war, though Molly had never been part of most of the fighting with so many young children, she still had honed herself in preparation to protect what was her's. Her wand is in her hand and her heart is pounding as she dashed out of the kitchen.

Her youngest boy is on the floor, his beautiful blue eyes are rolled into the back of his head, mouth open in wordless pain. He thrashed and arched his back with a sicking creak. His little hands claw at his shirt, knuckles white, and a horrific wheeze escapes his drooling mouth. Molly goes to her son, dropping her knees and quietly going through what little healing Magic she knows. Nothing worked, and she does not believe she can perform any sort of evaluation magic even if she knew it.

So she sings, softly, an old spell taught to her by her mum, who learned it from her mum. It is not powerful, but it is soft, warm and familiar and she hopes to calm her son as much as she can as she understands that she can do nothing by herself. She does not hesitate, does not flinch, she does not bother pulling on a cloak, she simply bellowed for Bill to come down to be with little Ginny, Percy, and Charlie hot at his heels with her well-practiced yell. She levitated Ron with a steady, even hand. Even if nothing of her feels steady, even as she feels tears of fear and uncertainty come to her eyes at the sight of her youngest boy twitching and spasming unnaturally. And after her yell, her children wide-eyed and frightened as they look at their brother, she keeps up her Mother's song on her trembling lips and quickly floos with Ron to Saint Mungo's.

**OOOOOOO**

_1981_

Harry Potter remembered when a wand is pointed at his head, by a tall, skeletal man. He is a one-year-old, can hardly see past his nose in the darkness of the room. But can see the flash of emerald light- it hit him, agonizing and brilliant and his head slammed into the crib bars behind him. Now, all he can do is wail at the feeling that the spell has cast, especially when he spots his mother slumped against the crib, her violently red hair covering her face. He is confused, in pain and he reached for her, hands so much smaller than what he can comprehend.

The memories of another life come to him like an inferno hot and melting, or rush him like wildfire that blazed across his mind.

He cried and thrashed, and_ burned_ through the memories of an adult assaulting a child of only one. He continued to do so when warm, impossibly large hands try to grip him. Rubeus Hagrid is horrified at the sight he found- Harry Potter sobbing, his fist gripped in tightly over Lily's beautiful auburn hair, as he moved about in clear, unrelenting pain. Hagrid hasn't had much in the terms of being able to help, other than to quickly grab his blanket, bundle the flailing child close and dash as quickly as he can out the door. He makes about three feet from the door when he is startled by Sirius Black, running up the lane with a wand in hand.

"NO!" he cried, and the young man is aghast as he watches his godson flail and screamed in a way no child should ever have too. Hagrid is holding him as steady as he can unsure and frightened beyond belief to what was happening to the boy.

"Sirius! Sirius! O' Lil' an' James! I don' kno' wat ter do wit' Harry- There's somethin' wrong with 'im!" said Hagrid, voice a sob of confusion and grief.

Sirius Black trembled, fevered vows of revenge and grief come to a complete standstill at the sight of the one-year-old. _James' son. My godson._ Every fear of what had happened to Peter-_ he should not have done this to his best friend, he should have never asked Peter to do this and taken the vow himself- _is gone in that single movement_._ Because _Harry _needed him.

"Give Harry to me, Hagrid, I'm his godfather, I'll look after him!"

"I 'ave me orders Sirius, I 'ave to take 'im to Dumbledore."

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, panicked, eyes wide as he took in his thrashing grandson. He swallowed. _I can't leave him, even to check on Peter. Not now. Not with him like this._

"Hagrid, given him here. I'll hold him while you drive my bike. It can fly and hold us both if I take out the sidecar. Let's go!"

Hagrid nods gave him Harry before they head for the enormous bike.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

_1983_

Hermione Granger remembered because she falls off the swings. It is mid-swing that it happens, the old, rusty chain snapping. She _flies, _hovering in the air for a fraction of a second longer than gravity would usually allow. She giggled, an infectious thing of a baby. And then it happened.

It's a torrent of earth crushing her mind- a shaking movement that rocked through her mind and took her completely and utterly down.

She fell like a stone, startling her mother as she started to twitch, flailing around in wordless pain. When her back arched, cracking, Emmeline Granger is screaming, starling everyone in the small park as she watches her four-year-old daughter twitch and flailed as if she was having a seizure. Her father, who had pushed the swing, Robert Granger is already running to her, hands reaching for his daughter with a panic. When her vividly light brown eyes roll into the back of her head, Robert swept her up in his arms, bolting for the car with his wife at his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I do not own Harry Potter in any sense. It's universe, characters all belong to its wonderful creator, J.K. Rowling, its publishing and broadcasting companies.
> 
> EDIT: 2 April 2020
> 
> This is me, playing in its sandbox, making misshapen sandcastles.
> 
> Whew, so from the beginning, this Founders fic was always going to take place in Harry's Generation. I've been throwing around this idea for a while, and finally got the nerve to post it a bit back.
> 
> The identity of one of the founders is kept vague on purpose, though I don't doubt that a very savvy Harry Potter fan will get the context clues.
> 
> On the subject of Ron Weasley- well. I will justify and fight it, especially when it's revealed who he is in terms of the Founders. But I honestly think he get's a bad rep simply because people don't like him very much. Que bafflement on my part when a lot of fics make him a death-eater, or the fact that hijinks usually excluded him and are delegated to Hermione and Harry gallivanting off with each other. I mostly find that boring, and a little bit of a coup out simply because Ron is very hard to write. No really, he is very difficult because most people seem to focus on making him as petty and mean-spirited as possible, and I don't think that quite true when it comes to his actual character. Yes, he's dense and unthoughtful sometimes, but with a couple exceptions of three instances(third, fourth and seventh year) his is an unwavering loyal friend, and he generally cares about the people he loves. Now, remember that his self-esteem is so terrible that his worst fear is that people will prefer his best-friend over him, up to and including his own family. Oh, and the moments we see him in canon is when he is fucking eleven to seventeen. Tell me that most of us were perfectly well adjusted at that age, especially in terms of self-esteem and how we feel in terms of our relationships with others.
> 
> So yeah. Salazar is Ron Weasley.
> 
> Fight me.
> 
> Kay. So I was writing Harry's part, and as soon as I remembered that Sirius Black was supposed to come up, I suddenly thought:
> 
> "Fuck."
> 
> 'Cause I knew that it wasn't in his character to leave Harry in obvious pain. And I tried to justify and change it so it goes about as canon. But I couldn't do it without making it illogical or awkward. And yeah. So Sirius made me rewrite the whole first part of the fic because he's a goddamn drama queen that loves his godson and gosh damn it.
> 
> Erm... He hasn't gone to check on Peter yet. So for all he knows he's been killed and caused the charm to fail. So, yeah. Yay?


	4. It Does Not Do To Dwell On Dreams And Forget To Live

_ **It Does Not Do To Dwell On Dreams And Forget To Live** _

The wind flowed through her hair, the pale blonde strands tickling across her face, nearly white in the dull morning sun. It was flyway and long, dry hair that needed a firm wash. It was as if the heat of bubbling cauldrons she regularly found herself over had sapped the health right out of it. She had been brewing a lot… It was one of the few tasks her magic could actively handle this soon in her life. And it was one of the few things she could do to break the tedium of research. _He's trying so hard not to seem sad, giving me challenge after challenge. He has been wonderful with this, accepting and so… __**Good **__to me. _She waded her pale, skinny legs through the river. Her delicate toes tested the mossy rocks and gripped at the exposed bits of the cool river mud. It seeped between her toes, comfortingly cool, almost silky in feel. Her hands were spread out wide for balance as she made her way. His wand, stolen or perhaps generously left for her to use, is wrapped in a towel for protection and was between her clenched teeth. Her skirt, soft yellow, long and dragging, followed with the gentle current tangling slightly around her legs.

It reminded her of Helga, the color, a shade or two off from the famed crest of Hufflepuff, but it was close enough that she felt comfort in it. 

Part of her- the part of her that was much older still felt as though the knee-length cotton skirt was far too short. It exposed parts of her that she would have been scandalized to show- especially considering she had no proper stockings, even at her young age. But silk or cotton stockings were no longer necessary, and slightly expensive to purchase- an extra expensive she wouldn't put on Him. The younger part of her, the her that was new and looking carefully at the world around her with a sense of never-ending delight for revisiting it, felt that it was much too long. Got in the way when she wanted to jump or run.

But she was always more or less compromising with herself- allowing the older part in her temper and examine and compare to her old memories, while the younger bits of her _enjoyed_ as her older part could not.

She was this curious mix, both old and new- both elder in mind and infantile. One did not rule the other, it was more as if she existed in a constant, turning process of blending both. She thought of Self as one, but it was fed by two. Older memories making way for new. Never fading, but rather turning gentle as new memories came to her. She was _reborn_\- the same person in a sense- but with the initial memories of her body before magic had manifested as maturely as it did. She wondered, as she often did, making her way across the river for her prized potion ingredients, if she was the only one of the four to come back as she had. And even if her friends had come back, were they this old and new person as well?

This curious mix of who they had been, and this new person they were yet becoming? Had their new selves taken over? Were they even the same gender as they had been? Or would she have to find a young boy with Helga's kind smile? Or a brash young woman with Godric's swagger? Or a wizened old woman with Salazar's disapproving glare? Were they the same age as she, or were they yet to be born, or had already gone grey and weathered as she never had the opportunity to become? Did they have their memories as clear and vivid as she did? Or was it only her? Or did they see the past in dreams, wispy and dubious as clouds or unseen as the wind?

_Am I _ _ **alone** _ _?_

She pushed that last thought away.

She also pushed back the fear that they had forgotten her, as she had _died _so young. Fifty-three, and surely her friends had lived much more than that? She had no idea how to find the exact way of their deaths, nearly a millennium after the fact, doubtful of the accuracy of such records. Her own death was only written sparsely about, all the texts of her first life only mentioning her contribution to Hogwarts, her intelligence and breeding, and little of the end of her life. There were hardly any mentions of how _young _she had been and even less mention of the circumstances of the death. Her beloved's name had not even withstood the test of time, though many had erroneously thought she had come to his Clan instead of the other way round. Her daughter's existence had no mention that she could actively find, and the Clan Ravenclaw was said to have died out due to her own negligence to produce a child. Or her 'unnamed' husband's failure to bring a second wife after her passing. 

With that, she was left with only her own estimations of what had happened to her beloved husband Ruaraidh, to her most precious friends, or if her beautiful little bird had ever been found. _I think not, with the way she has been lost to the course of history… Unless my beautiful Helen got her wish and removed herself from my legacy. _Surely her friends had forgotten her, or grown together after her death, a trio instead of a quartet? She pushed that thought aside as well. Because the older part of herself, the woman with wisdom and intellect, Rowena Ravenclaw, refused to bow down, refused to accept anything less than the fact that she would see her three friends again, and they would be reunited at _home._

She just had to wait.

_I am patient. I will see them again._

_I _ _ **will.** _

_I just have to _ _ **wait** _ _._

**OOOOOOOOOOOOO**

_1983_

Molly Weasley understood, hours later as she waited impatiently for any sort of news, that she might lose her youngest son to whatever mystery illness that had afflicted him.

At first, she refused to believe such a thing could happen. Ron was only three-years-old. How could a _toddler _die? Not when he hadn't had so much as a cold in his three years of life. Not when she had had so many healthy children, five strong boys, and a girl who had so much energy. Not when, for pure-bloods, both the Prewitt's and the Weasley's had surprisingly little history of infant mortality and stillborns.

_My Ronnie must be okay. _Had been a constant thought in her head, a constant prayer. But her prayer was ringing false.

As more time went on, sitting in the Saint Mungo's waiting room, heart in her throat, closing it and making feel dry and scratchy... She understood that her sheer willpower and denial was not enough to save her son. _It hadn't been enough to bring back Gideon and Fabian. _Ron was in real danger of dying- and Molly could do nothing but wait. Sit in the waiting room and do _nothing_. It was worse, in some ways, then what had happened with her brothers- at least her brothers had been grown men, at least her brothers had gone down fighting in a blaze of War Time glory. That was _something _of a comfort. It was a short life they had lived, but twenty-nine was a much better age than _**three**_.

Their deaths had been so quick, as if a pit had open underneath her feet. Instantaneous, without a mention of warning. They died doing what they thought was best. With Ron, it was as if she felt as if she was trapped in a small, closed room, watching as the pit crawled ever closer and closer to her feet. Because Ron had no such glory- he was just a baby boy that had fallen into a fit that was _killing_ him.

"Molly?" and she turns to Arthur, his voice soft and hesitant.

Molly looked at her husband, taking in his rumpled robes and bloodshot eyes. Her Patronus had not been as calm as she had hoped, then. Part of her wants nothing more to fall into his arms and sob her heart out- but Bill, only thirteen and pale is at her side, standing, silent, pausing from his wild pacing. _He remembers Uncle Gid and Uncle Fab, and he remembers losing them just as much as I do._ He stopped as he spotted his father, stopped, and she can see his jaw work. That strong jaw that reminds her of a younger Arthur, those blue eyes, also from his father, are bloodshot with lack of sleep, and what she suspected were tears when he had gone to the loo and stayed for a suspiciously long time. She sees something that makes her own jaw tighten, so much so that her temples ache. She cannot collapse in front of her young son, or fall apart at the sight of her husband. So she gives him a watery smile, trying her best to cease her trembling.

"How are the children?" she asked.

Arthur swallowed, tightly.

"I flooed Billius as soon as I was able. He is was putting them down to sleep last I saw. They kept asking for Ron... Especially the twins."

Something eased in Molly, at the thought that the rest of her children were safe and in their Uncle's care. She swallowed and made a note to thank her brother-in-law. They might never see eye to eye on certain things, but he adored his nephews and niece. And for him to take care of them now, to answer hard questions of worry from children, she knew it was not easy.

"Can... Can you tell me what happened?" asked Arthur, brows furrowed.

"I don't know what happened, Arthur. Ronnie just collapsed," she told him softly, a few tears escaping her, despite her best efforts.

Arthur is already moving, hand resting at the small of her back, blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

"The twins said he did his first magic, Dad," said Bill, quietly, the quietest Molly had ever seen her boisterous eldest, "And the Healers think it might have something to do with his Core?"

Arthur's brows furrowed again, and his hand moved, slowly, gently so that it was on Molly's waist. It held there, fingers digging into her side in gentle reassurance.

"Any other news?"

"No. They just told us to wait here."

They sat, huddled in tense silence as they waited. Arthur is now rubbing her back in gentle reassurance. No words needed as they watch their eldest resume his pacing. Molly's mind is whirling. _What is happening… What is taking so __**long?**_

"Mr. and Mrs. Wesleay?"

Molly stood up, straightening her robes as an exhausted-looking Healer came to them, lime robes sagging off of her form, and her frizzled hair sticking out of her sloppy braid. She was a younger woman, much too young, as if she had just finished her apprenticeship status. It did nothing to fill Molly with confidence, nor did the deep lines under her brown eyes, or the timid way her hands twisted in the sleeves of her robes.

"We have news of your son's condition…" her eyes flicker to Bill, brows smashing together.

"You can speak in front of our son," said Arthur, firmly.

"Well, let me be frank, Mrs. And Mr. Weasley, Ronald is still in danger as far as we are concerned. We've managed to stop the convulsing of his muscles, however, his heart rate and fever have yet to let up. Ma'am, sir, have you ever heard of an obscurial?" she asked, warily, her soft voice hoarse and drained.

Dread came to Molly beyond measure, she nearly collapsed into Arthur as he came to grip her waist tighter.

"We have never hurt Ron in our lives, he has no _reason _to repress his magic," said her husband, and while many would call him an absent-minded man, Molly always knew that Arthur had a spine of steel. Judging on how frosty his voice had become, the young healer knew as well, as she shifted uncomfortably as her husband started the witch down, "So I ask you how a three-year-old _healthy_ child developed an obscurial _overnight_ at the _first sign _of his magic?"

The Healer shifted uneasily again, visibly swallowing thickly.

"Sir, we're not implying any such thing, I had only asked if you were aware of what an obscurial is?"

Arthur simply pursed his lips. Bill surprised them all by answering:

"When a magical child is forced to repress their talent through physical or psychological abuse, they develop a parasitical magical force inside of them called Obscurus, resulting from their strong emotions of distress," he said softly, and when they turned to him, he was pale, his freckles standing starkly against his skin, "Got top marks on magical creatures, me. How can you think that's Ronnie? He's just a baby. Mum and Dad have done nothing to him. He's just a _baby_."

The Healer sighed, hands coming to tighten over the clipboard she had on her hands.

"To be frank, we have no idea what is wrong. His symptoms are fairly similar to an Obscurial, but we have checked that route and know for sure your son doesn't fit the criteria for one. All we know is that Ronald has suffered a sudden, large influx of magic that reacted to emotional stress, much like a normal, healthy baby would do with accidental magic. But… There's something wrong with that magic, almost, but not quite like it's been tainted by dark magic like an Obscurial... It _is _his own, and not a parasitic attachment as far as we can tell… But..."

Molly dared not breathe.

"But?" she whispered, horror in her tone.

"But it's _too _much. Too much magic, and it's attaching itself to quickly to him. Cores normally develop naturally over time. They expand and grow with age magic maturing with their body. But this is like his body is trying to cram as much magic as it can in the span of a few hours. But this is more like magic that's meant for his adult self. The body of a three-year-old is not meant to house this much magic. We're trying our best to slow it down, to try and relieve the strain it's causing him."

Arthur's grip on her waist tightened.

"What are our options?"

The Healer bit her lip, before breathing deeply and sighing.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley… We have none at the moment. We are exercising the only option we have at the moment. Because we have no idea how to stop it. We're trying our best to slow it down, but the Magical Core is a delicate thing to handle. If we push too far we can either render Ron a squib or… we might kill him. For now, all we can do is slow it down and observe best we can. If things keep going as they are… I- We have little doubt he will survive the night."

Molly choked back a sob. Poor Bill did not suppress his, visibly agitated, clenching his fists as tears fell from his blue eyes.

"Please… Please, can we see him?"

The Healer hesitated, before nodding.

"Only one at a time and I'm afraid young Bill will have to stay behind. The ward has a lot of very sick people and they don't have a strong enough immune system to combat things if he carrying anything."

Silently, Arthur made to move by Bill, sitting down and running a hand through his vivid hair. Wariness and exhaustion dragged him to slump on the chair.

"I'll send a Patronus out to… Out to Dumbledore. See if he has any idea," he said softly, hand coming around Bill, who, wordlessly, pushed his face into his father's chest to hide the tears that were falling from his eyes.

Molly nodded, her hands reaching out to briefly touch her husband's cheek, patting her eldest son's hair before she followed behind the Healer. They were not in the Children's Ward, signifying how terrible of a situation Ron was in. When they came into the room, surrounded by Healers, Molly felt her stomach drop at the sight of her young son on a too big of a bed. She swallowed thickly, looking silently between the healers as they did their jobs, huffing, and puffing, sweating in a steady trickle as they weaved their complex magic. It made the room glow in soft blues and gentlest yellows. Molly did the best she could to stay out of their way, settling into an unoccupied corner of the room, itching to run to the bedside, but knowing she cannot without being in the way. So she waited. Quiet, heart in her throat as she watched them work on her son.

She is not sure how much time has passed, when the Healer that came to them in the waiting room, came to her and asked her quietly whether she would like her husband to come and be in the room.

Molly looked at her son, young, so small on the bed. She hesitated before she gave a sharp nod to her. She cannot help but give one last over her shoulder, as she walked out of the room. Pale, so pale that his brown freckles stand starkly on his skin. His skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, and his hair was bright and a lovely shock of red. His eyelids fluttering like a hummingbird over his blue eyes. Molly had to clench her fists to prevent herself from running to his side.

Ron himself, is in an odd state of awareness and unawareness.

His eyes flutter, and vaguely he can see colors, blurred without shapes. Streaks of light… _So pretty but so frightening._ He reached for his magic long lost, trying desperately to make all of it _his _again. Because there is so _much. _He cannot sit ideal, cannot be content to wait. _So many plans left undone. So many things left unattended. So many words left without being spoken._

But there's something wrong in it, even as he reached, a half adult half toddler as he moaned, trying desperately to keep himself altogether, drowning in his magic, lost in the tide of it, half-aware and half-blind to it. It seemed to fill his body like dark-brackish filled water. Oozing into every reach of his body, clawing at him, tearing at him, so _cold and __**wrong.**_

_Dark magic has a price._

In his new life, he realized it, felt the sheer _agony _of his mutilated adult core trying to add itself to his untouched, delicate core of a child_. This, this they calculated as a possible side effect_, he thought, around the pain, even as the majority of his mind was screaming: _NO NO NO NO, MUMMY MUMMY MAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY! _Not the pain, but rather the maturity of their magical soul translating into their new bodies, but _his was __**damaged**_. _I did this to myself. _He had torn bits of himself away in his experiments. Tossed away pieces of himself he had never realized he had lost in the first place. He had made _scars_ into his core in his first life, where he had never felt it, but he was feeling the consequences now. _Knows what he has lost know that he has it again, feels the pain of the absence more keenly than when he had let it go._

"I'm sorry," he gasped, reaching, moments of his life as Salazar filtering through his mind, longing for forgiveness of his mistakes, of the folly of his own arrogance.

He realized, that as Salazar Slytherin, for all his plans, for his cunning, for all his breeding, he had been a_** fool**_. A reckless, reckless, arrogant fool.

As Ron Weasley, he would do _**better**_.

_I will be better._

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

_1981_

Sirius Black held Harry in his arms. Thrown deeply into his shirt, beneath his leather jacket, to protect him from the wind. _My little pup, pressed against my heart. _They crossed the skies in a tense, horrible silence. Harry had only cried for a few fitful minutes into their flight before his horrible writhing settled into painful little whimpers and faint scratches against Sirius's skin. In the wind, he can barely hear it, more feel it against his naked chest, snot, tears against his skin. Little hands gripped into his flesh, claws, his fingernails needing a trimming, but Sirius barely felt it. Barely felt the welts that are already forming or the fact that little Harry had drawn blood.

His eyes are dry in the night sky, having thrust his goggles, transfigured larger, to Hagrid, who needed them to drive, as they were charmed for night driving and against the wind. So dry that he could not see past the tears that formed in his eyes. _The tears from the wind, just the wind. _Sirius swallowed thickly, forcibly blinking his eyes. His arms trembled, trying to support Harry as closely to his chest, and from the cold air, the wetness of the clouds as Hagrid moved across the night sky.

All he can do is focus on the warmth he felt on his chest, as he had pushed Harry into his shirt, pushed him into it to keep a firm hold of him, confined him a little better. He is a flash of heat against Sirius's naked skin, and Sirius can feel the beat of his heart. It is galloping like a herd of charging hippogriffs, and Sirius can only hope it slowed down as he rubbed his back. He supported his little head as Lily had drilled into him. Part of him could not believe the head he was supporting used to fit in the span of his hand.

Even in sleep, Harry is fitful, struggling in his arms, unhappy and in so much _pain._

_Merlin this can't be right. Merlin Peter is more than likely dead- _ _ **Lily and James are dead.** _

"NOT FAR NOW, " called Hagrid, and even his booming voice is lost somewhat in the winds- Sirius guessed more or less, from the way that Hagrid is moving his hands toward the ground that they will land soon.

Sirius has no idea where they are- just knew that they are not heading towards Hogwarts. The surprise came to him suddenly.

_Where are we going? Hagrid should have asked me to apparate to Hogwarts._

The question is vague, in his mind, but all he can really focus on is the little bundle in his arms. They land ten minutes later, in a silent, peaceful street. Sirius still doesn't know where he was, beyond knowing it to be entirely Muggle, but he managed to shakily get out of the sidecar just before Hagrid swings off the motorcycle, switching it off in the same second. He stepped, uncertain, grip tight on his velvet cloak, but not on Harry. No his hold in Harry is gentle and ever careful. He can hear his godson's cries. Painful suckling hiccups that pierce Sirius's heart like a dagger.

"Professor," he whispered, hoarsely, as he sees Minerva Mcgonagall tartan robes and all, Albus Dumbledore at her heels, coming up the drive in a brisk walk, eyes focused on Hagrid.

She paused but for a second, looking at him, eyes wide.

It is then that Sirius Black can admit that the tears come.

"Professor, it's all my fault," he tells her, as his vision blurs, "Lily and James-"

He cannot finish his statement before a streak of red light comes at him. No word of warning. Just light. But with Harry in his arms, in shock as he as he is, Sirius dodged out of the way, forcefully conjuring a weak but servable shield, wand whipping to his hand in a millisecond. He turned and hiked Harry up in the same movement so that he is draped over his shoulder, his teeth bared, and cannot help but give a breathless whine of surprise. It is a dog-like sound, when he sees Albus Dumbledore holding his stark white wand in his hand pointed, at Sirius with its tip still blazing.

"Headmaster," his voice shook, but he can't help that.

"Albus have you lost your mind-"

"Why are you here Sirius?" Dumbledore's voice was as he had never heard it before. It was dark and furious, and his blue eyes, so keen at being able to see through the Marauders' mischief as children, were blazing in cold fury, like an icy flame.

"I-"

"Why did you give them to the Voldemort?!" his voice was thunder of fury.

Despite himself, Sirius can't help but flinch a little, eyes waiting, waiting for the familiar _crack_ at the trigger of the Taboo. No one came, and Sirius let out a breath. It is then that the question sank into his mind, and he felt his heart start to pound in disbelief and hurt.

"Headmaster-"

"SIRIUS," bellowed Hagrid,"SIRIUS HOW COULD YA DO THA' TO LILY AND JAME-"

"I RATHER HAVE DIED!" He screamed, and he can't help but fall to his knees, hunching over his godson, tears and snot falling with abandon. But he made sure to look straight into Dumbledore's furious eyes, dropping his Occlumency barriers without hesitation, he felt the slight dip as a second mind came to his own, felt the brutal force of no care for himself. And still he spoke, "_I should have been the one. _I should have never switched with Peter as Secret Keeper, but James agreed- He thought it was so _clever. Who WOULD SUSPECT IT? AND NOW THEY'RE DEAD. IT'S ALL MY FAULT. __**I KILLED THE THREE OF THEM.**_"

Silence met his confession, and Sirius Black sobbed on his knees, clutching Harry to himself. Dumbledore stubbled back, chest heaving. He only sobbed harder when Professor McGonagall sank to her knees with him and wrapped her arms around him. To his keener senses, the familiar smell of laurel flowers, ginger biscuits and cat made him relax, and all he could do was cry and shake helplessly at what he caused.

"It should have been me, it should have been me..." he helplessly said, "I killed them. I killed Peter and Lily and James… It's all my fault and Harry needs me. There's something wrong with Harry, Headmaster Dumbledore- _Please, help him_."

Harry, Harry himself heard this all from a distance, his mind a swirling inferno. It runs hot, a burn of magic and memory and emotion across his too fragile a space, lighting up his reincarnated soul in a myriad of synapsis. Burning flashes of memories came to him, the familiar pang of fondness as he spied Helga's blonde curls that had faded to a snowy white, the ache in his heart at Salazar's face as he died, the loss of Rowena's soft and rare smile.

The soft laugh of his mummy, the way her auburn hair had caught the light, the green of her emerald eyes. The sparkling hazel eyes of his daddy, the boisterous way he would play with Harry, the way his hands would be impossibly gentle as he held him.

Harry Potter took the burn steadily, faithfully, bravely tempering the limits of his young self to accept all of who he had been- all with the fragile being he was.

_To honor the brave of heart, had been my creed. My Christian-name had been Godric, my clan Gryffindor, my home had been Hogwarts Castle. My friends had been Helga, Salazar and Rowena…_

_I am…._

_Godric._

_But not Godric._

_I'm Harry._

_Just Harry now._

_But I will live my life as courageous as I can, just as before._

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

_1984_

Emmeline Granger, felt her heart in her throat, as Hermione made her way carefully across the room reaching for a book on the shelf. Her daughter's face was serious, and her way of walking was deliberate. Hermione had always been a _serious _child. But ever since her seizure, nearly a year to the date, she had gone from serious to morose. She hardly _laughed _anymore, and while several psychologists and neurologists had assured her it was a common enough occurrence to see a slight personality change after what most Doctors had diagnosed as a stroke... Emmeline found this change to be too startling. Hermione had never been what one would call an excitable child, yes, but she had always_ questioned,_ with an adorable fever to know. She had asked questions so fast her words would slur together, tug eagerly on Emmeline's sleeve to look over her shoulder at the book in her hand. She would beg for books with brown eyes wide and a large a shy smile on her face…

But now Hermione did no such thing.

She never begged for books, she only asked politely. At the first negative, Hermione only gave a nod of reluctant acknowledgment, as if she did not like her judgment but accepted it. Before, her daughter would have at the very least asked a few more times. Now she never asked more than once. She never clambered onto Emmeline's lap anymore, only laid a careful hand on her arm to achieve her mother's attention. She never danced on her toes in eagerness, and her smile and laugh had faded into a ghostly memory.

"Mother," a careful, polite sort of tone, it was what Hermione would give at any moment. No fast slurring words or excitable recitation of facts, "The book I require is on the highest shelf."

_I'm not mummy anymore._

Hermione gestured to the shelf.

"Which one dear?"

"The one about the fairytales, Mother, the German one."

Emmeline reached for the book, thick and heavy as it was, and carefully placed it in her daughter's waiting hands. It was a complete set of the original two volumes of _Grimm Fairy Tales, _the one with the English translation and original German side by side, and it was a favorite of her's _now. _It wasn't as if Hermione had not read Fairy Tales before, but now she devoured them. Henry was going out of his way to find more and more obscure ones, volumes of different countries with stranger and stranger tales of magic and morality lessons. Calling in favors with their University to out-source more volumes. The best Emmeline could see it, her daughter found comfort in them, in the fantastical and strange, she who had suffered such a severe medical condition at such a tender age. Why else would her daughter skew so far in a genre she had previous little interest in? Henry claimed that Hermione was looking for something in those pages, but what, Emmeline could not personally fathom.

Hermione took the large book with an air of fragility that had never been present before the seizure. Her daughter had previously possessed the normal roundness of all young children, but in the coming months after her seizure she had lost quite a bit of weight. Her appetite had waned, drastically. It showed in the fragile bones of her wrists, the sharp elbows and how her cheeks had lost some of their roundness. She knew despite the constant state of drowsiness that her daughter slept very poorly. It was evident in the bruises beneath her eyes.

"Is it too heavy, I can carry-"

"No Mother, I can hold it."

_Her stare was almost as if she was reprimanding her_, thought Emmeline with a fond smile as she saw a familiar part of her baby. Hermione had always been an independent sort, and that had only been reinforced with her delicate health. She asked for assistance at the very last resort, and Emmeline knew if she wasn't present in the room her five-year-old would have climbed the oak shelves herself to retrieve the book. With careful precision, Hermione carried the book to the window-seat of the small library of the spare bedroom of their flat, sinking into the cushion, leaning against the cool glass.

For a moment, Hermione looked over London with faraway eyes, a frown appearing on her face as she looked across the city. Part of Emmeline wondered if she should have followed her own maman's advice when they had started their practice, and chosen a less urban location. But for a young couple, the slightly run-down building had enough room to build their practice, and have a somewhat comfortable home with a little care and input. They had never thought of children living within the flat, and though Henry had always longed for a child, when Emmeline had reached thirty-eight she had doubted it would happen… They had forgone the comfort of a larger home, liking the ease of their current neighborhood and the flight of stairs that consisted of their commute.

But then Hermione had come, and they had made the decision to not untangle their lives. The flat didn't need two studies and there was an excellent school system she could access within London when the time came. Emmeline's maman now claimed that was what had caused Hermione's seizure- the city air and life- and that she would be safer in the French countryside with her.

Part of Emmeline had debated it, but through recommendations from both Medical and Mental professionals, she and Henry had opted to keep their daughter home.

Without another word, Hermione began to read furiously fast, her soft brown eyes flickering across the page. Emmeline watched her daughter carefully as her hand went to her pen. She was jotting down notes in a horrible scrawl that was quite unlike her previous neat looped writing. It wasn't quite legible to Emmeline.

"_All normal," the speech therapist had said with a reassuring smile," Hermione is relearning things. It will be a while before her penmanship improves- it's just part of the process, Doctor Granger."_

_Emmeline frowned at the horrible scrawl that was Hermione's new handwriting, a mess of scribbles, shaky symbols, and odd accents that Hermione seemed to be unaware she was making. It didn't even seem like English to Emmeline, but whenever Hermione was asked to read from it, it seemed to make sense to her._

"Wrong, wrong..." muttered Hermione, softly, as she went.

"I'll be just in the kitchen, Hermione," she told her daughter, hovering by the door.

"I would like tea if it is not too much trouble?" asked Hermione, her words, like much of Hermione's actions as of late, were deliberate. Careful of each of her syllables.

In the early days since the incident, Hermione had spoken in gibbered, slurred speech. Not quite right, not fully forming her words and pulling in odds spattering of phrases she had picked up here or there. Emmeline had understood some Latin, and from what Henry had said he had caught phrases of what he recognized as the '_Canterbury Tales' _until she had started to focus on her words.

"Of course, sweetheart," she told her daughter, softly, "Mummy's going to be in the kitchen. If you need anything-"

"Come to you, I know."

And then, without another word, Hermione returned to her book. Knowing it was best to give some space.

"_Don't crowd her, Emmeline," Henry constantly told her, voice soothing._

"_I just want to make sure-"_

"_I know. But smothering her isn't what Hermione needs. Since you left the practice, you have always been hovering. It isn't healthy, for you or for her. "_

_Emmeline pursed her lips, fists clenching._

"_Do you resent me for leaving our practice? Is this what you are trying to tell me?"_

"_Of course not, love. But you have to give each other space. That's what's best for both of you."_

_Emmeline did not hide her tears and pressed her head into Henry's neck. He held her, soft and warm._

"_I'm just scared of what's happened to her. She's my baby, __**Henri,**__" she whispered, her native french accent slipping in her stress._

"_It's going to be alright, love. Hermione's going to be fine."_

_Her new mother, Emmeline_, Hermione thought softly looking up from her book as she quietly closed the door behind her, _Was a kind woman._

It was evident in the way she had left her work, as a muggle healer, _doctor, _for her sake. _How far we humans have come, for a woman to be a healer and be lauded for it, instead of criminalized._ It was a curious profession to focus only on the teeth but for Hermione, it showed progress. It showed that people were willing to delegate for efficiency. Something Hermione fully approved of. Certainly, when she had been Headmistress, she had solely wished for a further divide of the departments.

_Do not think of Hogwarts._

Hermione suppressed tears, her sobs sudden and wracking through her chest. It was something she found herself doing, often, whenever she thought of her people. Of the home, she had built with her precious friends. _Of my children, and my children's children. Of my sweet Auln's face weathered and handsome beside her, of his arms as she drifted off to her last sleep. _It was difficult to process, everything, and while she could count the experiment she and her friends had started so long ago a rousing success-

_Magic seemed to be _ _ **gone ** _ _from the world._

Oh, she still felt it in the Earth, she still saw the presence of creatures… Or at least the remnants of them. And she felt it within herself, beautiful and vibrant, humming and entwined with her very soul. _That I apparently posse, how fascinating. _But her people, Wizards, and Witches had disappeared from the annals of history. Thrown off as ignorance, thrown away as trickery. Left to the tales of children, Hermione could not help but cling too for the familiarity she found in them. She was attempting to construct a timeline through them, and locate her people. But more and more she found that she was lead to dead ends. She was running out of options, only a year into her searching and it _hurt._

To think in what she estimated to only be a mere millennial that witches and wizards had been hunted to extinction, or bread out as many had feared. That she, reborn, could be one of the few to survive in this modern new world_. _It was difficult to understand. _And so horrifically lonely to contemplate._

Her sadness felt like a cloak about her small shoulders. It made food ash in her mouth. It made nights long and full of shadows. It made her mind a burrow of dark places, of fears and doubts of the very possibility of her friends not waking up in this new world as she had. Of being the sole witch in a strange world she was only beginning to understand. _They must be out there, Rowena, Salazar, and Godric. _She can not even begin to think that they had not been reincarnated with her. If she had come to the twentieth century without anyone, as she was beginning to suspect to _**fear **_than Hermione Granger had no idea what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here ya go folks. Chapter 1 to 3 updated, with chapter 4 all ready. I meant to post this earlier but figured I needed to finish up my editing before then. I cannot promise that the next chapter will be ready any time soon, but since I have an appalling amount of time on my hands- well. Maybe it will be soon. 
> 
> Be safe, be well.
> 
> ~Happy Reading,  
Moon Witch '96

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: 6 March 2020
> 
> So I am currently in a massive rehauling of all of my active fanfictions and realized as I finished editing this first chapter that I have yet to post this on AO3, much to my surprise. Oops? If any is interested in reading the next few chapters(two) in a more raw form, feel free to follow the link below:
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12536328/1/Coming-Home


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